


Your Name is Kankri Vantas, and You Fucking Hate The Smell...

by NotVeryCreativeAtAll



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Drug Use, NSFW, Other, Quadrant Vacillation, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Unsolved Relationship Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotVeryCreativeAtAll/pseuds/NotVeryCreativeAtAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus comes home reeking of an old habit. Which sends Kankri into a Karkat-esque tantrum. Then of course, this leads to reckless sex, and a fish-boy sleeping on the couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Name is Kankri Vantas, and You Fucking Hate The Smell...

**Author's Note:**

> The only 'drug' used is marijuana. I say 'drug' because it's a fucking plant. I headcanon Meulin, and Kurloz as dealers. I might make a fic later based around them, but not now. One idea at a time. This is a Beforus AU, where the game didn't exist/was never played. I chose this pairing, because I feel like this would be one of the ones where it could most easily be applied. (Also to get used to writing with other characters.) Anywho, enjoy.

“Look, I’m just going to chill with Mew and K for a while, okay? I promise I won’t drink, or smoke, or anything. Okay? You can even wait up for me. I’ll be right back, I promise.” After about fifteen minutes of solid “no’s,” and Cronus is practically begging. You take about a minute to mull it over; then, very reluctantly, decide that it will be... fine. With a quick kiss on the cheek, he’s out the door in a matter of seconds.

That was four cups of tea, and three hours ago. At this point, there is no way he wasn’t telling you a lie in some way. You had a feeling it was smoking again, Cronus wasn’t big on drinking, he wouldn’t even touch a glass of wine on Wriggler’s Day, much less drink anything that wasn’t mixed with something to the point of not being able to recognize the distinct flavour of soporifics. Nonetheless, after about two hours is when your suspicion really started to kick in, and an hour later you are fuming. You try to troll him, but lo and behold: his portable communication device is in the other room, charging. This is just fucking like him. Finally after the third hour you feel like you’re going to snap. By the time he stumbles through the door you are completely engulfed with rage.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. He fucking reeks, and you loathe it so fucking much. When you take a look at him he looks worse than he fucking smells. His clothes are disheveled, his hair falling out of its usual place. The gel seems to be flaking off in pieces. Gross. When he looks at you, you can tell he has overdone it this time. His pupils are blown to at least twice the size, the yellow scleras are now purply-brown, and bloodshot. Taking it all in makes you want to hurt him. Your thoughts run ballistic, ‘He promised he wouldn’t, well he lied. What else is new? How could he do this? You already knew this was going to happen. Don’t act so surprised. You should have gone with him-’ the clash of your open palm to his cheek is what stirs you from your thoughts. You don’t remember standing up and walking towards him, much less the thunderous growl emanating from your chest.

“How dare you?” your frustration might encompass your being, but you are not about to start howling like a wounded barkfiend now. “You fucking promised me, you said you would be right back, you said you weren’t going to do anything. Do I even want to know what all you did tonight, Cronus?” You grit your teeth together as you speak, trying not to raise your voice. The growling doesn’t stop, although you do try. A little bit. He doesn’t even answer, he just stares at you with those blasted eyes. He finally straightens up a bit, only to take a step towards you, stumble, and fall onto you. Both of you go crashing to the floor; even then it only takes two seconds for you to flip him over and pin the baked fish to the floor. The position is quite questionable; your legs are spread wide, thighs pinning his hips to the floor, hands crushing bony shoulders into the not-so-cushy carpet.

“Shit,” is the faint remark you get from Cronus, and for the second time tonight you slap your supposed-to-be matesprit. This time, instead of getting any worded response, you get a loud moan, a thrust of his pelvis into yours, and a whiff of hormones that you are not used to smelling for many reasons. Then it clicks, the proverbial cogs in your thinkpan begin churning, and the not-so proverbial hormones begin pumping through your circulatory system.

“You fucking like this, chum bucket?” the words are like acid on your tongue, and you berate yourself for using that slur, of all slurs, as you grind down harshly on the violet blood beneath you, eliciting a moan and almost instantaneous chittering. “I can’t believe you. You are fucking filthy, Ampora,” you quietly hiss at him, to which he tries to make another noise of satisfaction as you cut off his air supply. With one hand tightly wrapped around his gills, you begin grinding into him. You hate yourself for giving in to a temptation like this, but Cronus had never smelt this desperate, and needy, and submissive before. It’s like your body refuses to stop. You’ve never felt loathing like this before, you’ve never been this upset, and angered, and turned on.

“I hate you, Cronus Ampora,” it slips out of your mouth without warning. You release the hold on his neck, and the rush of air into his weird respiration system sends him spiraling into a coughing fit. (Which you will never admit it, but it does brings a huge amount of satisfaction to you.) He leans up to kiss you; in return you slam him back into the ground. You don’t know what has come over you, but you think you like it. A snarl tears through your throat, as you lean down, pushing an absurd amount of weight onto his chest and smashing your lips together. The kiss is nothing but teeth, blood, and acid. Your bodies react to each other so violently; your bulge begins to thrash in your lower abdomen. All while the both of you are grinding against each other like two wrigglers going through their first heat together. The noises he makes are soft, whining, begging for more, whilst all of yours consist of growling threats, and animosity. It’s when your bulge finally reaches its own breaking point, and begins thrashing around inside of your pants, that you decide to change what’s happening.

You go to move, in which the pile of hot mess beneath you decides to emit a high-pitched whine, to which you reply with a harsh ‘shut the fuck up.' You climb off of him, and flip him over. You make sure that his clothes tear as they are ripped from his tiny form. Using his horns to your advantage, you smear his face into the carpet, taking the opportunity to use your free hand as a torture device by pinching at his gills and leaving deep gashes in his grub scars. When you think you can’t handle this anymore, you take the hand not crushing his face into the ground, and swiftly undo the front of your pants. You take the liberty of pushing your pants to your knees before guiding your bulge to his nook. You don’t push in at first, taking the time to tease his swollen slit, and revel in the noises produced by the shaking troll beneath you.

“Please, Kankr-” Cronus attempts to beg but is quickly cut off as you shove three fingers into his mouth.

“How dare you speak to me,” you admonish. “Why, pray tell should I do shit for you, Cronus?” It’s a rhetorical question, to which he knows better than to actually reply to. The pitiful moaned reply is perfectly timed. You ignore prepping, because you know he doesn’t need it, and assault his fluttering nook, changing his whining into moans laced with even more want and need than before.

“Now, I’m going to be very clear,” you make sure the words embed their way into his thick skull, before you even begin to move. “If you do not reach climax before I do, you will not reach climax at all tonight. If you decide that you want to, then you will do it yourself, with no toys, in the shower. Any mess made you will be cleaning with your own hands, and if I feel like it, I might make you clean it with your tongue. Do you understand me, Cronus Ampora?” you remove the fingers from his mouth, and he tries to nod a response, to which you reply by pushing the side his skull back into the carpet. “Use your words.”

“Y-yes, yes Kankri. I under- I understand. Please, please, please-” he sounds wrecked, and it makes your bulge thrash inside his nook. His swollen cave is currently trying to tighten and suction around you, in attempt to elicit some movement. Which, if it didn’t feel so damn great, wouldn’t have worked, but your patience is wearing thin, and you feel that you have waited long enough for sure.

You begin to move, finally, pulling out a bit only to slam right back into his precious nook. You push your bulge against the front of his nook, forcing it to clamp down around you. You realize that you love teasing and humiliating him like this, and you pull back out and slam back in over and over and over again. Your tip just barely stretches the entrance of his seedflap with each thrust. Yet, every time it elicits a new type of moan or whine. His nook flutters and cramps around you, begging to be filled. Your bulge begins to focus on stretching the seedflap as far as it can, and finally, with a few more thrusts, you fill his insides with your genetic material. The feeling leaves you temporarily blinded, but immensely satisfied. When your bulge finishes pumping, stuttering to a halt, and the writhing boy beneath you is full, you slide right out of his nook. Your bulge resheaths itself, and you stand. You pull your pants back up, making sure they’re zipped, before walking away. 

“You will clean yourself up, and you will sleep out here tonight. Good night Cronus,” is all you offer before locking yourself in your room. After laying there for a bit, you remember he needs clean clothes and leave him a neat pile of them outside the door. As you lay down once again you can hear him in the other room, moaning your name. You already know he’s got his bulge lodged as far into himself as it can go. He’s fucking disgusting sometimes. At least he’s in the bathroom. In the morning you know you will have to send those clothes to Porrim for repairs. The carpet will most assuredly need a good cleaning. All the while you are definitely not looking forward to the very long conversation with Cronus. You guess for now you will try enjoying the night of sleep you’re about to have. Which, of course, isn’t going to be great. That thought alone leads you to rethink somethings. Like ‘Maybe a bit of weed wouldn’t be too bad for nights when you have to sleep alone. It’s supposed to make you sleep better right?’ You fall asleep while trying to remind yourself to do some research in the morning. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. Of course when you wake up there is a purple stain, with bits of red to it soaking into your carpet and a fish boy who probably won’t wake for several more hours unconscious on your couch.


End file.
